Wide Awake
by kloperslegend
Summary: Newly unleashed into the world, the last thing Helena wishes is to be so terribly wide awake. This is my headcannon, starting at the beginning of season 2. Eventual Helena/Myka. Rating may eventually change.
1. Chapter 1

**Author: **Kloperslegend**  
****Pairing:** Myka Bering & HG Wells**  
****Rating:** PG**  
****Spoiler: **Season 2**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters, but some days I sure do wish I did**.**

**Summary: **Unleashed into the world, the last thing Helena could ever wish for is to be wide awake.

11/15/12

* * *

1.

The first thing she felt when the bronze lifted was pain. Her limbs felt asleep thousands of years over, and blood rushing back into your veins after a century-long break is never something non-traumatic on the body. Had gentle hands not wrapped her in a blanket and whisked her forward, she knew she would have collapsed. God, how she wanted to.

"Did you have any trouble?" She could barely register the second voice, a man's voice, as the hands pushed her along.

"No, but I'd recommend a twenty-four isolation from light." The woman who released her. Obviously these people weren't the regents, but she couldn't even garner a hint of a guess of the strangers were. If they were warehouse agents, there wouldn't be the urgent tone lacing their words. Helena put herself on guard.

"…care of it all." The woman said, and she was handed over.

Even through the blanket when she was brought out into the sunlight, exposed to the harsh rays of the world she hoped had gentled, it had hurt. In a way, it was proper. It was fair. Going out, she had caused the death of an agent. Her return ought to be painful. She had been cowardly when asking to be bronzed, and as she caught herself from a stumble – muscles still waking up from a dormancy she thought would never end - she was deeply scared that the rest of the world was going to be just as ruined as the scene before her.

She tried to speak, and, voice unwilling, continued in silence.

It was a horrible way to start a consistently horrible day.

"Come on, friend, you've got a great deal to catch up on. Welcome to the future. Let's change it, shall we?" Those were the first words she heard. The man had announced them after taking her from the first pair of hands and funneling her blanketed body into some sort of automobile. Rushed, he hadn't bothered to mention what sort of world she was being welcomed into.

"Would you like to know what year it is, Miss Wells?" he asked, huffing and puffing as he put himself in driver's seat. Apparently she was so far in the future, people drove on the wrong side of the road. But it was more likely they were in America.

He seemed far too talkative, or perhaps her circumstance had acclimated her into a forced introversion. She shook her head, mind muddled. "Do I want to?" she returned, voicing the only clear thought she had.

"Do you?"

She shook her head again, slowly. "Perhaps… not yet."

The older man nodded his head slowly. "Very well. But know that I've gone through a great deal of trouble to free you, Miss Wells. I've held much anticipation regarding our meeting." Here he grinned, and Helena grimaced. She knew this grin; he wanted something and was going to go to great lengths to achieve it. She steeled herself for what was undoubtedly going to come. Helena took no action for anyone other than herself.

"You see, my dear, I need your help. There's been a terrible mistake. The warehouse has become corrupt. I am trying to correct this disaster before something terrible happens."

Helena processed this in silence. In the bronze she had contemplated her own actions and the response of the warehouse. While she fervently believed the warehouse would have been kinder and wiser to help her with the death of Christina, she couldn't deny or refute the justness – the mercy – of her punishment regarding her resulting foolishness. "What exactly has gone wrong?"

"Oh, you don't want to hear that now. You've just been freed. Wouldn't want that to be your first exposure to this brave new world, now would we?" He chortled a bit, as if laughing at a private joke. "But I think we can help each other, once you've recovered. What they did to you was horrible, horrible. Completely unfair. You see, the warehouse did the same to me, my dear. We are the same."

She flipped the blanket off her head. It had become annoying. "You lost a child?"

"No, but something similar. I used my resources to save a lover, and was punished most viciously."

"You used an artifact, then." She was surprised at the lack of emotion in her voice.

"Yes," he hissed, "and if I hadn't, she would have died."

Helena could understand that. "And now you are after revenge."

"Justice," he corrected.

Helena needed to decide quickly. In the bronze, she had changed. Something had been created: a century of meditation can do that to you. Most of the time – because days were completely immeasurable – she was at peace with Christina, and others… she wondered how any mother wronged could ever feel better. Ever. But if she had learned anything, it was the disasters that can come from rash action without forethought. Her throat tightened at the thought of Wolley, the poor man…"What exactly is your plan, then?"

"I know what you were after when they bronzed you." Helena's eyes widened. In her bouts of insanity before she elected to be bronzed, she had made some terrible mistakes. It had only been cautionary measure, if things became too horrid, if…

"No. That's completely unreasonable. Whatever happened to you could not possibly warrant the use of _that._"

"The Minoan trident, my dear. You can say it."

Helena internally cursed, hoping he was referring to some other artifact, _any_ other artifact. "You'll kill so many innocent people." She reached for her neck, and her throat clenched. The locket, where was the locket?

"If the warehouse figures out our plan, they can take appropriate measures. Arthur - " He glanced over at Helena, " – your Chaturanga – would never allow humanity to fall in such a fashion. They will be forced to expose themselves _and_ the warehouse. You see, Miss Wells, I'm not trying to destroy the world. I'm trying to save humanity by forcing the warehouse to… share."

She didn't know the man, hell, she didn't know his name, but he felt like the sort who would kill her if she wasn't useful. She could – would – play his game until there was a way out. "Understandable."

"Think, Helena," she jarred slightly at the use of her first name, "Christina need not have died. There might even be an artifact in the warehouse that can _bring her back._ But you'll never know," the man leaned over to put his lips next to her ear, "unless you look."

Miss Wells did her very best not to be tempted.

* * *

They drove for miles in silence.

"It's the year 2010."

Helena startled a little; she had just started falling asleep. And here she was thinking that _this_ was just a dream. She brushed her hair from her face. "Come now, I don't even know your name and you're already expected me to just _accept_ you in the pinch of what's obviously a very important game?" _Back on your feet now, Helena old girl,_ she told herself. "What _exactly_ do you intend to do? Because before I plan on cooperating, I have some demands of my own."

Her company chuckled. "I'm Macpherson. James Macpherson. And the plans will come in l due time, when we're safe and a bit farther from South Dakota."

She nodded and allowed her head to thump against the window. "Seems like you already know who I am, Mr. Macpherson, so I won't bother to introduce myself. And you've said you want the Minoan trident. But I'll say again: I have some demands of my own. You'll get nothing from me until they have been fulfilled."

He considered her comment. "I shall do my best, Miss Wells, but do try to understand. Considering we are akin to international fugitives at this point in time, some things may simply be out of my reach." They passed their fifth car in five hours. It was red. He added, almost as an afterthought, "But you have my word I'll do my best. So what can I do for you?"

"My things – I'm assuming they're in the Escher vault?: I want them. Not all, you understand, but a few choice items I'm afraid I simply can't live without."

"Such as?"

"Such as, the specifics are none of your concern," Helena shot back, "I didn't ask to be debronzed. You could have at least had the decency to take along some of my things."

Macpherson grimaced, and took a deep breath. "I'm afraid, my dear, there was very little time for such things."

"We'll make time, now. Or your plan shan't get off the ground at all."

"Miss Wells… you realize that your things are somewhat… inaccessible?"

She crossed her arms, pulling the blanket around her tighter. "Yes, Macpherson, I'm not a trollop, I understand the implications of the Escher Vault. We'll need the goggles."

"The key to the goggles are with a guardian, and I doubt Mrs. Fredric will be lenient if we borrow them. We'll have to think of another way." They sat in silence, Helena listening to the motor of the automobile rumble beneath her. She refrained from commenting on it, not wanting to seem impressed.

"I'm tempted to suggest my imperceptor vest, but I'm afraid that too would be a waste of our time." Finally becoming somewhat uncomfortable, she her hair out of its bun.

"Ah, yes, I remember reading about that. Wherever did it go?"

"It doesn't matter. It's quite useless. There was never a way to power the vest efficiently, as the amount of energy required is tremendous." She ran her hands through her hair quickly to rid it of any knots.

Macpherson grinned slyly, hands flexing on the steering wheel. "Yes, well. Science has come a long way since your time, Miss Wells, however ingenious you may have been."

Helena prickled as his insinuation, but said nothing. After all, she had no idea who he was or how, if all, he was associated with the warehouse.

"Is that so?" she said, voice still hoarse from disuse. She tried not to sound too incredibly fascinated.

His face split into that same craggled grin, and she suppressed a frown.

"It sounds like we'll be going to Switzerland, then," he said, taking a turn-off as a giant engine roared above them.

* * *

Helena immediately decided that she was going to have a love/hate relationship with planes. Theoretically, as James had described it to her, it was quite sound. But the concept of being trapped inside a cylindrical hunk of metal thousands of feet above the air did not appeal to her survival instincts, however sound the theory was.

"Why Switzerland?" she asked, sitting cautiously next to him in the seat on the right. Her eyes roamed around the cabin, innate curiosity always getting the best of her.

"Where did you say the vest was?" he interrupted, touching the back of her hand lightly. She pulled away, pursing her lips.

"I didn't."

"If you think you can manage in this century, I'll send you get it. I would rather not split up, but it will save us time and throw off our pursuers. I'll need to know the location of the vest either way, Miss Wells."

Helena narrowed her eyes shot back, "It's in London. And there, of all places, I'm sure I shall 'manage.'"

He chuckled. She was beginning to dislike this man, despite their similarities. "Very well. We'll fly to London first, where I'll drop you. I will meet you back in London at an address I shall send you using this device." He offered her a small rectangular device. "This, believe it or not, is a phone. Specifically, a cell phone. You could say it's the child of Bell's phone, and Tesla's wireless communications project."

She took it carefully and examined it, taking the back off and examining the battery before flipping it open. "So his project with the American government yielded something, did it?"

Macpherson smiled. "You could say that."

"I'm assuming it works like a sophisticated radio –"

"Indeed. The signal is handed off to different radio towers as you approach the edge of its range; each tower covers a 'cell' of land, hence the term 'cell' phone."

"Ah."

After showing her the basic workings of the phone, he quietly excused himself to the bathroom. Helena rose and walked around the plane, fingers lightly brushing the cabin overheads. This wasn't what she thought the world was going to be like when she woke. It was all so fast here.

Then again, she hadn't thought she would be waking at all.

* * *

He dropped her at London. After mulling around town for a while, shocking herself with each new difference, each inconsistency, she stopped at a bar for a drink. Not ladylike, and something she would never do in public in 1890, but warehouse 12 had had given her access to unique experiences.

Both the beer and the nostalgia moved through her like a sickness, nausea included. It was worst after she left the bar and made her way to Church Row, where every street corner and lamp-post reminded her of her sweet Christina. God, Christina. Her throat clenched remembering her daughter and the offer Macpherson had so slyly imparted on what she knew to be a fragile mind. A possibility of getting her back… No. She shook her head, boots clacking on the cobblestone as she forced herself to walk past her old house and return to the hotel Macpherson had provided.

A small suitcase sat on an unruffled bed, full of clothing she would never have imagined to wear. Macpherson had been kind enough to provide her with the essentials of the era, simply because it wouldn't do to 'have her stand out like a sore thumb.' As if she couldn't find a way to blend in herself. It was insulting.

Helena undressed slowly, tossing garments on the bed as she moved to close the curtains. Tomorrow evening she would get her imperceptor vest. She had intended to use today as time to scout out what sort of security her house was being placed under, but that plan had been thrown out the window the instant she set foot on the streets.

"What am I doing here?" Helena didn't even realize she had spoken until nothing but silence greeted her in return. "Bloody well nothing good, that's what I'm doing." She muttered, questioning herself for the thousandth time. She pulled the curtains shut loudly, fabric swinging; a reflection of her indecision.

Rolling into bed, she quietly reviewed the images Macpherson had given her of the warehouse 13 agents. "Peter and Myka," she said aloud, testing the sounds in her mouth. Their names seemed nice enough. Setting them on the bedside table, she wondered briefly if they would shoot her first, or take her for questioning. They certainly didn't seem to like James Macpherson.

It wasn't long until sleep greeted her as glove greets a hand.

* * *

I really appreciate critique. Any little bit is helpful! Don't be afraid to be harsh; I want to improve.  
While I plan on writing this story for my own pleasure, support will likely result in quicker updates.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author: **Kloperslegend**  
****Pairing:** Myka Bering & HG Wells**  
****Rating:** T (for a bit of sexual innuendo)**  
****Spoiler: **Season 2**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters, but some days I sure do wish I did**.**

**Summary: **Unleashed into the world, the last thing Helena could ever wish for is to be wide awake. Forced to deal with her circumstance, she reluctantly turns to those who hunt her...

11/15/12

* * *

_2._

"_How _dare_ you?" She screamed, "This isn't fair!" Helena stood defiantly in the rain and the storm, wind threatening to topple her over. "_You won't take them both from me!_"_

Helena lurched forward, gasping for air as she clawed at her neck for material comfort. She grimaced and held back tears as she remembered her locket was still gone. Her link to Christina… gone. Sterning herself up, she threw off the covers and dangled her feet over the bed. She had slept in a simple nondescript shift. Today she would get the imperceptor vest, and, God willing, finally meet the agents Macpherson so violently opposed.

Running her hands through her hair, she mentally skimmed through her disturbing dream. In the bronze you can't sleep, so your entire existence feels like a watered-down nightmare. The vivideness of the terror and anguish she had felt last night hadn't felt watered-down; It made the musings of her cold prison seem delightful.

Slowly she stood, and took a small minute to gather the clothes she had tossed on the end of the bed and fold them into neat little piles. She was surprised that silence still held an appeal for her. When she awoke from the bronze it had felt akin to being born, and after spending a century in solace had looked forward to some noise, even if it was static. But no, Helena was Helena, and she would always be a creature of dark and solitude – even if the darkness clenched her nerves a bit too tightly at times.

She showered quickly, throwing her hair into a sloppy bun before dressing in something she thought conservative. Black and white seemed appropriate. Helena was, after all, mourning her lost years, was she not?

Leaving her bags in the hotel, she quickly departed for her home. _Or rather, what once was my home_. It wasn't too far. _Hopefully, I'll make it in time for the grand tour,_ she thought sourly, gripping her handbag as she brushed by a hurried fellow going the opposite direction. She had planned on stopping for a nice cup of tea, but she figured the sooner she got the vest to Macpherson the sooner she could get her locket and ring and be rid of the horrible man.

After a fifteen minute walk she entered her house – 'Home of H.G. Wells – WRITER' – and was greeted by a cacophony of people. Helena simply could help herself: she chuckled. It was just like one Charles' old dinner parties, but modern. And no one was eating.

"Oh _hello_ darling, aren't you a doll!" her head turned as the blonde tour director approached her, "I think there's one more spot in the tour for this hour. Go ahead and sign in the guest book; we're going to get started here soon and we like to make sure everyone has signed in!" She didn't wait for Helena to even respond, moving through the small horde of people with the ease of a knife through butter. The artificer shuffled with much less ease to the guestbook. She scanned the pages, disappointed to see the two warehouse agents had failed to make an appearance. _No matter, _she thought, _undoubtedly they'll be around._ She lifted the pen next to the book and paused. How was she to sign her name? H.G. Wells? Surely not, especially with a few final guests standing in line behind her. _Edward Prendick, _she wrote, feeling clever. Undoubtedly there had been other errant guests reluctant to sign their name; using her own character's gave her a sense of possession she desired.

"Are you done there, miss?" A fellow with an obnoxious ball cap tapped her shoulder.

"Oh, yes, my apologies." Helena handed him the pen and moved out of the way. Glancing around quickly, she moved toward the tour guide. "Ma'am?" A tourist bumped into her, causing stray hairs to fall into her face. The woman looked up. Feigning distress, Helena asked for directions to the loo. Smiling, the guide patiently explained directions the 'tourist' already knew by heart. She figured heading off like she knew the place wouldn't arouse suspicion in the average joe, but precaution was her ally.

She rounded a corner to return to the lobby, and sure enough, there they were. "… Hey, H.G, lookie here, we're waiting for ya!" Shocked, Helena absentmindedly looked to her left and moved forward. After all, Macpherson had informed her that it was indeed her brother Charles that was renowned for all the work, not her. If the agents hadn't been informed, they wouldn't know.

She walked right into the two of them. "Oh, sorry," the woman said. "Sorry," Helena intoned in reply, before walking off.

What she then had to endure she mused about for the rest of the evening.

After watching the man she knew as Pete completely humiliate himself (or rather, she thought, his flushed and irritated partner) in confronting the actor (half of whose stories were complete rubbish anyway), she had seen enough of her house to know that all the important things were likely still in place. After all, if the tour guide knew about the cavarite and the secret room, wouldn't that be on the 'to see' list? It wasn't, and Helena was banking on such ignorance.

After the tour, the two agents requested quietly that they be left alone in the house. She doubted they'd find anything she had to worry about, but she did want to meet them and possibly talk some more.

That plan had flown right out the window when she saw they were ransacking her house.

It was good that Helena had switched the boots she was wearing for the magnetic ones after everyone had left the room of "Herbert's sweet albeit uncouth" sister. Helena had nearly taken the head off of the infernal guide. She supposed the frustration was worth the pure delight she felt at outwitting Agents Pete and Myka. All in all, she was almost disappointed. She figured in the future maybe everyone would be smarter or with more sense, but she was wrong. If anything, things had barely changed at all.

_And worse still_, she admitted as she hurried back to her hotel imperceptor vest huddled under a peacoat, _they hadn't even bothered to learn why I was bronzed before coming here _– If anything, she felt like they ought to have given her the benefit of the doubt. Instead they had sought to persecute her mindlessly.

Helena nodded to the doorman as she entered the hotel. Macpherson would be here tomorrow morning to take them back to the warehouse, where she could finally get her belongings. Her locket. The final memory of Christina.

She entered her room and quietly shut the door behind her. Christina. Helena knew where she was buried – not too far from here, in fact. It would be ever so easy to pop over there, to see…

But, no. Not knowing whether or not Macpherson was having her followed, it was a risk she couldn't take. If there was one thing she would never allow someone to do, it was to use Christina – in any shape, any form – against her, ever again.

She peeled off the peacoat first, hanging it neatly in the closet. She considered hanging the vest there as well, and then decided against it. Helena didn't know if the maids of this day and age were more prone to filching than they were in hers, and couldn't risk it. If she lost the vest, Macpherson would be completely livid. As a compromise, she overhauled the luggage Macpherson had given her and settled the vest in the bottom. Once the rest of the clothing was placed on top, she zipped it up and slid it under the bed.

The shadows on the wall of her hotel changed as the hours passed. Helena brooded. _What else am I to do?_ She folded her arms quietly, looking out at 21st century London and lamenting for what seemed to be hours. Helena knew no one but Macpherson, and he was questionable. She knew the agents – or rather, she knew about them. But there was no one she could talk to. Briefly she considered returning and asking to be bronzed again, and stopped.

When had her mind become so brumal? She stood from the bed immediately. Now was not the time to be depressive, not when she was free. Not when, for the first time in a century, she was free to _do_ things. To _see._ To _live._

She picked up the phone. She knew what she would do.

It took calling seven times before the director of the house tours answered very grumpily. Helena gushed at the woman, informing her that she remembered something important to the American agents and, did they leave their number or where they were staying? Yes; The agents did.

And she was off.

They were staying at an upscale hotel in a different area of London, but Helena gladly paid the fare to get there. Cautious as ever, she had the cabbie drop her a few blocks from the hotel in case she was followed. While bringing the imperceptor vest would have been tactically advantageous, Agent Bering could consider it a weapon. If there was anything that would ruin an appeal to mercy, it was a threat, so Helena left it under her bed.

After ensuring that Mr. Macpherson or a lackey of his was not following, she travelled the last few blocks to the hotel.

When Myka opened the door, it was with a gun pointed at her. Helena lifted her hands, and took a deep breath, sterning herself. Well, she had gotten herself this far.

"Inside, Miss Wells," Agent Bering's voice was firm, professional, "Nice and easy."

How had she expected this conversation to go? _Oh, yes, Agent Wells, I'm here to have a nice chat. I was lonely, you see, and since you're one of three people I'm familiar in this age, I figured we could share a bit of conversation over tea. You say I'm a wanted woman? How nice of you to put that aside for the time being…_

Helena merely nodded and stepped inside, hands still raised. Myka pushed the door closed with her foot, the click resounding in Helena's stomach. _Foolish, foolish, foolish, _she chastised herself now. _Put all your eggs in one basket, why don't you? _"Agent Bering."

The younger woman effectively ignored her and reached for a rectangular box Helena could only interpret as a communication device. "Wait," she implored urgently, "Wait."

Helena gazed down the barrel of a gun as Agent Bering looked up, hand frozen in place. "And what reason could _possibly_ be good enough to prevent me from calling my partner?"

The older woman swallowed, but kept her countenance. "I'm just here to talk. To relay information about Macpherson –"

Myka opened her mouth to speak, but Helena barreled on, raising her voice lightly, " - Information that won't compromise me, and allow me to help you. Now please, Agent Bering, if you will… put the gun down. I just want to explain." The adversaries lowered their arms together, with Myka finally putting her gun back into its holster. Unclipped.

"I'm going to need to search you," Myka says, shrugging off her jacket and moving into the room. She never takes her eyes from Helena.

The older woman simply nods, following slowly so as not to cause alarm. "I came unarmed." Myka shoots her a raised eyebrow. "…but by all means, darling, search me anyway" Helena lifts her arms.

Myka wipes her hands and moves forward. "Remove your jacket, please." Helena does, and Myka sets it on the bed after searching the pockets.

"Turn around and place your hands on the desk." The Englishwoman raises her eyebrows and does as she's told.

As she deliberately places each finger on the table, she can't help but let nervousness get the best of her. "My, my, Miss Bering. It's been a while since anyone's demanded _that_ position from me. Though," she adds purring, Myka's hands frisking her legs, "it _was_ under certain… intimate… circumstances."

The younger woman stiffens suddenly and stands, pressing up against Helena and hissing, "Do you think this is a game, Miss Wells?" Something in her tone sets the time-traveler off balance. "Because it's not. I will take you back to the Warehouse, kicking and screaming, and rebronze you myself, is that understood?"

"Quite clearly," the other responds, trying hard to concentrate on her words rather than the body behind her. She absurdly realizes herself somewhat aroused. Granted, it _was _the first human touch she had experienced outside of escaping the warehouse. First or not, Helena found the other woman quite moving. A little stiff, perhaps, but who wasn't, out of bed?

Agent Bering finally lets up, and the rest of the search is completed in silence. "All right, Wells." She moves to the small table with two chairs near the window, and pulls one out. Helena sits where she is directed. "Say what you came to say."

"I'm not who you think I am."

"Herbert George Wells, or rather Helena Grace Wells; author, artificer, and one of the Warehouse's most wanted."

"And have you read any of my work?"

Helena watched a flicker dash behind the standing woman's eyes. "Not important."

H.G. felt a small quirk tugging at her lips as she looked down. "Quite right. What I meant by my first statement was, I'm not who you are perceiving me to be. I'm not villainous, I don't want to be helping James Macpherson, and I wasn't bronzed for the reasons you think I was."

"Elaborate." Agent Bering crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back against the wall with cool authority.

"I didn't want to be unbronzed, Miss – "

"Agent."

"—Bering. I planned on being encased for the rest of my life. Mr. Macpherson debronzed me because I have information regarding a very dangerous artifact that –"

"Which artifact?"

"—I spent some personal time with before being bronzed."

"Which artifact?" Bering repeated.

"Would you kindly cease your interruptions!" Helena snapped, dark pools glaring full force into forest green, "It's hard enough being in an age where the only people who know you think you are some sort of deranged killer!" She paused. Myka waited. Leaning back in the chair, Helena continued . "I can't give you the name of the artifact now because your milling around will alert Macpherson to a turncoat." Myka raised an eyebrow. "Me." Helena clarified, taking a deep breath. "He knows things about my past I was not aware were made public. I'm not entirely certain how. What I do know is that I must play along with him to retrieve my belongings, and then I will be rid of him."

"You're using him to get your things from the Escher vault."

Helena nodded, looking up at Myka from downcast eyes. "Yes, and that alone. I was coerced into this plot of his. I certainly didn't volunteer," She scoffed, "to be with that horrid man."

"So you plan to leave after you've gotten your things." It wasn't a question. A slight nod from Helena confirmed. "What will you do when you're free?" Myka, cautious but convinced of Helena's relative harmlessness, pulled out the chair opposite to her and sat. "I mean, the regents aren't just going to let you roam the world unmonitored."

"Obviously." Helena paused, finger tapping the table, head lolling from the left to the right. "I am aware some investments I made under an alias have matured quite nicely. I'll likely draw upon then, and create a new life for myself. As for the regents… they are not so hard to circumvent, if you are familiar with the right methods."

"But…" Surprised, Helena looked up at the soft tone of voice, "What will you do with your life? Will you write?" Myka fidgeted in her chair.

"I don't know what I'll do yet. But yes, I imagine I'll write." She paused, the two of them pinning the other with their eyes. It was playful, passive, a look of equals; a test of strength. Helena broke the moment by continuing. "Darling, you realize the works you are so familiar with were never penned by my hand. As I said before, I merely provided the ideas."

Myka wore a soft smile when she replied. "Yes, and your brother 'provided the mustache.'"

They chuckled softly together, and after a period of silence, Helena stood. Myka followed suit, though a bit faster and with less ease. Helena's eyebrow arched. "No need for concern, Agent Bering. It's merely time for me to leave. I've made my plea and have said what I needed to say."

Myka nodded, hands tucked in her back pockets. "You know, though… this doesn't change anything."

Pulling her coat on, Helena grimaced. "Of course."

"But I'll be sure to take into account everything you've said."

"And it will be kept in confidence?"

Myka hesitated, biting her cheek. "I can't promise anything… but I'll do my best."

Helena fixed the other woman with a level gaze, muscle twitching in her jaw. "Keep in mind, the success of Macpherson may rely entirely on your discretion."

Myka, refusing to back down the convict, met her eyes entirely. "If it comes down to it, I will sacrifice your 'discretion' for the good of the warehouse."

Helena prickled, face contorting in the tiniest bits of anger before smoothing itself again. "Of course. I haven't earned anything from you."

The agent walked past the time traveler to open the door of the hotel room. "You've made a good start, Wells."

Helena left the room, turning around in the doorway only to be startled by the exquisiteness of two verdant eyes. "And if everything you've said is true," their owner continued, "you're well on your way to earning a small amount of trust, at least."

"Indeed," Helena replied, somewhat breathless. "Goodnight, Agent Bering."

Leaning against the door, the agent inclined her head in response. "You too, Wells."

* * *

I really appreciate critique. Any little bit is helpful! Don't be afraid to be harsh; I want to improve.  
While I plan on writing this story for my own pleasure, support will likely result in quicker updates.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author: **Kloperslegend**  
****Pairing:** Myka Bering & HG Wells**  
****Rating: **PG**  
****Spoiler: **Season 2**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters, but some days I sure do wish I did**.**

**Summary: **Unleashed into the world, the last thing Helena could ever wish for is to be wide awake. After killing Macpherson and fleeing, Myka and Helena have a few things to resolve.

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A quickie before thanksgiving break. I assure you there will be more to come; the scaffolding for the next three chapters is already in place!

* * *

Days later Myka would reflect on what was said in the hotel room, all in the new light of what had happened. The woman had _killed._ Artie had been telling her as much the entire time, but death was something that was easily denied from a distance. No one could deny how devastated Artie was when Macpherson had essentially melted in his arms.

What had she said? _"I'm disappointed, but not surprised."_

Myka remembered clearly the distaste she expressed for Macpherson during their late night conversation. But had the artificer harbored enough distaste to kill?

All these thoughts roamed through her head listening to the low sounds of the bed and breakfast waking. First, Pete's solid thump onto the hardwood floor (an alarm clock never seemed to be enough for him), then the small sounds of Claudia stirring in the room across the hall. Artie's penguin-gait to claim the shower. Leena's sizzling kitchen sounds. It was a language of normalcy rarely interrupted by outside life, necessary for maintaining sanity. Sanity, after all, was a rare commodity in their day-to-day dealings.

Myka threw the blankets from the top of herself, stretching in bed before rising to meet the day. She frowned a bit as she quickly ran her fingers through her hair. As was common every morning, there was practically a mop on her head. To put it shortly: she was a mess.

Grumbling, Myka padded over to her dresser and pulled out the blue-grey blouse she planned on wearing for the day. As usual, Artie's five-minute shower started right as she was ready to wake up.

Suddenly there was rap on her door. She looked over, noticing for the first time a sticky note attached to the wood with scotch tape. Furrowing her brows but ignoring it for the moment, she opened the door.

"I think the football found a ping. Something about a high-school sports team." Claudia looked about as haggard as Myka felt, but her eyes twinkled as she continued on. "I'm just letting you know so you don't dress in sweats today."

Myka gaped at the young woman, exasperated. "I only did that once! It was a Saturday!"

"Yeah, and Artie about blew a gasket when no one would take you seriously because, as that farmer said, 'no respectable agent would be in the field wearing _that_.'" Claudia's fingers formed banana quotes as she repeated the offending words.

Myka grinned, eyes twinkling as she shook her head. "Just get out of here, before Artie isn't the only one blowing gaskets!"

Claudia waved the comment away. "Pfft. As if you could complete." She began walking back to her room as she continued, "He's, like, the world-renowned gasket-blower."

Myka snorted as she closed the door, grabbing the sticky note and brushing her unruly hair from her eyes. All humor bled from the moment as she gazed down at the elegant cursive hand:

_Agent Bering,_

_I realize my departure was somewhat unruly, but I feared – and still do – Arthur taking rash action against me. You would do me a great honor by meeting me in the alley behind the postal service between 9 and 10am to discuss the implications of recent events._

_Ever at your mercy,_

_Helena G. Wells_

Myka crumpled the note in her hand and dropped it in the trash next to her dresser. Mercy? That was most definitely _not_ on the list of things she wanted to give Helena Wells. Not only had her actions turned Artie into an irrational jumpy man, they had inspired fear in the heart of Claudia, whose dreams had (for the past few nights) been fraught with nightmares of Wells stealing Artie from their lives.

Sure she would meet Helena. Fine. _But, _Myka thought as she gripped her towel, _it will be _my_ turn to do most the talking._

* * *

This would be the first time she'd see Agent Bering since their encounter in the warehouse. Helena kicked a small rock around the alley with the tip of her boot, crinkling her nose as she caught the smell of garbage from a shift in the wind.

She didn't have to wait long. "Wells," She heard, and looked up. Myka Bering was walking toward her with a look to kill on her face, and in three strides the agent's hand connected solidly with the older woman's face.

Stunned, Helena lightly touched her cheek where it stung, mouth in a silent 'oh.'

"And don't think that _just because_ I'm a secret service agent, I won't slap you again. You _betrayed _me, _used_ my kindness to _get inside my head_, and _went behind my back_ to get what you wanted out of a complex situation."

Helena wiped the edge of her mouth, checking for blood. "I've no doubt you'd slap me again," she replied with sarcasm, "We are ever women, before anything else."

"You told me you just wanted to get your things and _leave_, Wells, not some cock-and-bull act of retribution"

"I did exactly as I said I would," Helena defended, jamming her hands into the pockets of the leather jacket she was wearing.

"You _killed_ Macpherson, Wells, I'd say that was a pretty big detail to just _forget._"

Helena's eyebrows furrowed as she looked at the infuriated other. "I didn't forget, Agent Bering, I improvised based upon how the situation needed to be handled."

"And the _situation_ called for killing?"

"Macpherson was an evil man bent upon bringing about the _end of the world_, and you and your petty agent friends let him escape not once, but _twice._ I couldn't risk him escaping again."

Myka moved within inches of Helena's face. "You say he's evil, Wells? You _killed_ him, so what does that say about _you_?"

"Nothing." Helena retorted, turning her back from Myka to put space between them. "I haven't changed since we last spoke, Agent Bering; I hold the same sentiments."

"You hold the _same sentiments?_" Myka's voice rose an octave, her hands open at her sides."So you were planning on killing Macpherson _the entire time_?"

Helena whipped around, finally roused to anger. "Given his plans to _destroy the world, _yes! Killing Macpherson has prevented the deaths _of huge populations of people and species, _if not _life as we know it_!"

"Bronzing him would have served the same purpose, Wells; you didn't have to kill him!"

Helena paused, grinding her teeth and looking down. "You intended on bronzing him, then?"

"Yes." Myka snapped, "Obviously."

"Then death was a mercy he didn't deserve."

Myka's jaw cracked shut, glaring at Wells. "Killing him wasn't _merciful_, Wells, it was taking justice into your own hands! And it harmed more people than just Macpherson."

"Warehouse justice is slow, convoluted, and overwhelmed with credulity."

"And who are you to pass that sort of judgment? And for your information, I have never seen Artie more upset in the entire time I've worked here. He's after your skin, and I'm this close -" Myka held her pointer finger and thumb barely apart, "—to handing you over to him. Do you understand that, Wells?"

"This conversation is concluded, Agent Bering." Helena turned to go, but was stopped by Myka's hand on her shoulder. She stiffened; if there was the one thing she didn't want to do, it was turn this into a confrontation. Myka hadn't even given her a chance to talk about what the entire meeting was for.

"No, Wells, answer me; what possibly could have happened to make _you_ the sole… the sole…" Myka struggled for the right words, "_Bolverkr* _for the warehouse?"

Helena began moving towards end of the alley. "I don't _work evil _for the warehouse, Myka, and while comparing me to a God is flattering, it certainly isn't accurate."

Myka threw up her hands, sarcasm lacing her tone. "Okay, alright: tell me what you are, then. Enlighten me, Miss Wells, victim of _so_ many injustices.

"Merely someone intimately familiar with the short-comings of the warehouse."

"Yeah?" Myka spat, "Are they shortcomings because they're legitimate issues, or are they shortcomings because they're inconvenient for _you_?" With the last word, her finger dug harshly into the other woman's chest.

Helena coldly removed the hand from her chest, stepping back a few paces and staring steadily at Myka with a chilling lack of emotion. "As I said, Miss Bering, this conversation is over."

"Yeah, maybe today it is. But the next time I see you, it will be down the barrel of a gun on terms much less agreeable. There will be no more 'honorable meetings' between us."

Helena's face fell then, and Myka almost regretted her words. She bit back an apology, not wanting to go back on her word, clamping her tongue so hard she almost drew blood.

"Myka Bering." The time-traveler said, and it was so softly Myka almost didn't catch it. "I have a certain fondness for you." She paused, not meeting the taller woman's eyes. "This is not the direction I intended our relationship to go."

And before Myka could reply, Helena turned and speed-walked down the alley, boots clacking in time with her swift step.

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*_Bolverkr_ is another name for Odin, specifically meaning 'evil-worker' or 'the doer of evil deeds.'

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Critique appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Author: **Kloperslegend**  
****Pairing:** Myka Bering & HG Wells**  
****Rating:** PG**  
****Spoiler: **Season 2**  
****Disclaimer:** I don't own any of these characters, but some days I sure do wish I did**.**

**Summary: **After Myka's furious rebuttal, they both need a little processing time. This is nearly pure fluff.

11/19/12

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Helena had been sorely discouraged and somewhat lost after Myka's ferocious rebuttal. She hired a manager for her recovered assets, and he had suggested she purchase some property in both London and the states, simply because she seemed to be travelling so much. It had been a wise suggestion. She already had a small house in London (one that hadn't been turned into a tourist attraction), so that was simple. In the states, she opted for Seattle. It was, after all, notorious for its rain. Anything that made this new world feel more like home was a small blessing.

While she had been sorely tempted to buy a home in South Dakota, she refrained. There she would be too tempted to contact the warehouse again, or God forbid, Myka.

Tonight Helena was attempting to learn the machinations of her kitchen. Knowing how an oven worked was completely different than knowing how to use one, and the more she failed the more her admiration for Sophie and the rest of her serving-women grew. The microwave was even worse: it was bad enough that microwaveable dinners were so terribly convenient; the fact that they were horrible for you was worse. One look at the ingredients had convinced Helena of that.

Helena looked sourly at the variety of vegetable sautéing in pan before her. She was sure she remembered to put the carrots in first – as they took longer to soften – and every other important detail regarding _stir-fry, _but couldn't help being pessimistic. It was, after all, cooking: perhaps the one thing Helena wells _couldn't_ do well with her hands.

A pop of hot oil struck her skin and she swore before nursing her finger into her mouth. The onions were almost golden enough to be done, she thought, so she could finally escape her dismal performance in the kitchen.

It was raining tonight in Seattle, per usual. She had thought about going to the bar not far from her flat for the last few nights and had resisted the urge. Helena detested those who drowned their problems in substance abuse, harming not only themselves but everyone around them. Charles had always said a drink oft helped to clear the mind. Right now, Helena didn't want a single 'drink.' She wanted to disappear.

Writing usually allowed her that luxury, but for some reason she was completely blocked lately. There hadn't been much time to write since she had been debronzed, and now that she had the time, all she could bring herself to write about were brunette curls, and the determined look Agent Bering gave her down the barrel of a gun. The way she stood when she was resolute, and how long her legs looked from a distance; the way her eyes narrowed when you said something she had no mind in hearing…

Agent Myka Bering would not let Helena be. And every time she thought of the agent, she thought of her predicament, and every time she thought of her predicament, she thought of how aimless her life was at this point. Not to mention her disgust at her inability to think of anyone else. She was like a girl with a silly schoolhouse infatuation. It was completely juvenile.

As she sat watching the rain, munching her cooked vegetables, those drinks were starting to sound better and better. Alright. She had had dinner. She was a responsible adult. The bar was only across the way. Surely, no harm could be done.

* * *

"You look like you got a bit of a problem you wanna share with me." The overweight bartender slid towards Helena, tired blue eyes looking up from under sleepy lids.

"I have a problem?" she asked, taking her beer from her lips.

"Sure do."

Helena chuckled. "And I ought to share this hypothesized problem with you?"

"I _am_ a bartender." His blue eyes sparkled.

"I'm assuming that title holds something more to it in America than it does in London?"

He looked up, shining a glass as he replied, "Ahh, don't think so. But maybe. Just means that I have to listen to a lot of miserable people tell me a lot of miserable tales. Means I know when someone's got something on their mind. Means I keep secrets real good."

Despite his obvious need of a proper English lesson, Helena was charmed. She took another drink of her beer, finishing it off, just as the bartender set another one in front of her.

"Name's Jack."

"Lovely to meet you."

"And you are?"

She paused, stopping before realizing that no, she wasn't on a mission, and yes, that meant she could answer with absolute clarity.

"Helena," she said, nursing her new beer.

"Nice to meet ya.'" He offered a callused hand and she took it firmly. He chuckled. "Good to meet a gal with a firm shake."

She scoffed. "Is that really so uncommon?"

He puckered a lip, thinking. "Not all that much. But here –" he tipped his hand toward the window, indicating the busy streets, "—with this city being all business-like and all, might be the expectation." He moved to put the cleaned glass on a shelf behind him. "But ya' ain't here on business, are ya?"

"No." she replied, intent on letting the man do her talking for her.

He turned, his face stern. "Now, ya know, I ain't going to getcha another beer until I get some kind of keys. You aware of how many you've had tonight, Helena?"

She looked over at the pile of empty bottles Jack has yet to remove. "Quite."

"Then ya' know why I'm concerned."

Helena sighed, pushed the half-consumed beer away from her, and rubbed her temples. "I'm afraid the only keys I have are the keys to my home, Mister Jack. Those I shan't be giving away any time soon."

"Ya live near here then?"

"Yes."

"Recently moved here I take, or I'd 'ave seen you 'round here afore."

"Correct."

"Ya' gonna give me one-word answers all night, miss, or ya' gonna let me help ya' with your problem?"

"You're rather relentless, aren't you?"

His smile reached his eyes. "Now, now, that's a good start. That was five words outta ya. But remember I'm the one asking the questions, Miss Helena. You'll be talkin.'"

Helena snorted. "Righty ho, then. Fire away."

"What's got ya in the dumps, darlin'?"

She flinched at the term of endearment, one she used far too often, and one she had hoped to use far more – regarding a certain brunette agent.

Jack's grin grew. "So it's a man, then."

Helena barked a laugh. "Partially, yes, but not in the way you're thinking."

"Enlighten me."

She reached for her beer to finish it off and a flicker of concern flashed over the bartenders face. Helena ignored it. "It's rather complicated. But in a gist, I was recently… unwillingly released… from a form of incarceration. The officials in charge of the situation were unaware I had been broken out, and I was ignorant that those who released me weren't there in an official capacity. The man who set me free was only doing so to use me for some specialized information I possess regarding a very dangerous…" she hesitated, trying to think of any other word besides _artifact _or _weapon._ She laughed. It was fruitless. "…. A very dangerous artifact. I turned myself in to the agents in charge of the situation, but they didn't believe my innocence. I ended up ridding them of the man who set me free, a complete and utter villain, and am now hunted for it." Here she paused again, drinking her beer, debating whether or not to continue. Ah, well. It was inane to finish halfway. "On top of it all," she added mutedly, "I believe I have developed feelings for one of the agents trying to capture me."

Jack kept the disbelief off his face with ease, having literally heard most everything before. "So, that was it in a gist."

"In a gist, yes."

"So you're tellin' me you were sent to jail –"

"Actually," she interrupted, "I opted to be there."

He furrowed his brows at her, quirking an eyebrow, "So ya' volunteered to go ta jail, then this imposter broke ya' out and tried to use ya,' but ya' tried to turn ya'self back in, and they didn't believe ya."

"Right."

"And then ya' killed the man who broke ya' out, 'cause he had some nasty plot or somethin,' and now they're after ya' for killing him?"

"That's correct."

"And ya' say you got 'feelin's' for the guy who's after ya'?"

"Girl. Woman. But yes. That's correct."

The gay community was large enough in Seattle that he was unphased by her admission. "Damn, woman. Ya really ought to write some of this shit down."

Helena laughed, somewhat astonished he hadn't commented on the oddity of her interest in a _woman._ Then, realizing exactly how loose the alcohol had made her tongue, she became very sheepish. "You aren't… planning to call the authorities, are you?"

It was Jack's turn to laugh, and he did, hands holding his beer-belly as his roar echoed through the mostly empty bar. "Naw. Most of em' are pricks anyway. So you tryin' to escape or somethin'?"

She shook her head, adding the empty bottle to the pile. Jack began collecting them. "No. I want to prove my innocence, or rather, prove my actions were in their best interest. Prove to her that I'm not a villain. That I can be trusted." Her empty hands fiddled now – she had previously taken a sip from her beer when finished talking. Now it seemed her hands didn't know what to do. "Might I have a glass of water, by chance?"

Jack nodded, grabbing the glass he just finished cleaning and walking down the bar to the tap. "Seems like ya' got yourself in quite a pickle. But here's my thoughts: Fix one problem, and ya' can fix t' other. Start by proving that ya' ain't no threat to these people, whoever they are. Help 'em from the sidelines, or somethin.' Then when ya' finally shown 'em you ain't no harm, you'll get a shot at that gal yer so fond of." He set the glass of icewater directly in front of Helena. "You know?"

She took the glass gratefully and sipped. Without the warehouse resources it would be difficult to locate the artifacts, but she had never had any problems collecting them herself. It wouldn't do any harm to try. If she actually _did _collect any artifacts it would be simple enough procedure to send them to the warehouse anonymously. Then it would be simple deduction on their part. Helena was trying to help.

"Fine advice," she concluded.

"That's whatcha'll do, then?"

Helena nodded, sliding off the barstool with remarkably less poise than usual. "That is _exactly_ what I intend to do." She pulled her wallet out of her back pocket – purses were just so large and unwieldy these days – and paid for her alcohol in addition to a generous tip. "You've been very helpful, Jack."

"That's my job."

Her amused chortle was interrupted by the tiniest feminine hiccup, and her hand flew over her mouth in surprise. Jack barked a laugh, and then gestured to the door with his drying rag. "Get outta here, girl. Get some sleep. And I don't want to see ya' back in here 'till ya' got that other gal with ya.'"

* * *

Myka was fuming, and no one in the B & B could figure out why. Even Leena, typically intuitive, could only tell the others she was experiencing a great deal of internal indecision and repressed desires. What the desires entailed, she left out; Myka was entitled to a small amount of privacy, no matter the conflict.

It was the morning after the debacle with Robert Louis Stevenson's bookends, and Myka was grumpy despite Artie giving them the day off. The boys and Claudia had decided on going to Denny's for some of their peanut-butter breakfast balls (a grossly inappropriate title for an item both Myka and Leena agreed could not possibly be breakfast) leaving the two ladies alone for a quiet morning of coffee and scones.

At the moment, Myka was perusing the local paper (a habit only recently developed, Leena noted) while sipping lightly at her coffee; a thick, black, viscous substance Pete previously thought only cowboys could consume.

Leena was in the middle of crocheting a new doily for the kitchen counter when she realized it was an opportune time to try to open Myka up. Glancing over, she examined Myka's aura. Swirling, upset, dark, then suddenly light; yes, the agent was still wrestling with something unresolved.

She lowered her project and blatantly looked over. "Whatever it is, it'll be alright, Myka. You have friends here."

Myka looked up from the paper, somewhat surprised. "Huh?"

Leena looked back, undeterred. "Whatever it is you're struggling with. You have friends here. No matter what you decide, it'll be alright."

Myka looked down, the fraying ends of her sweater suddenly becoming very interesting. She was tempted to say, _I don't know what you're talking about,_ but stopped. She knew better than to lie to Leena, but didn't want her silence to be misinterpreted. She compromised with, "I don't think that's entirely true."

Leena nodded; she couldn't see the future. She couldn't even completely understand the things she read in people's auras, but that didn't prevent her from trying. "That may be so. But the people here care for you, Myka. Even if you _do_ make the wrong decision, how we feel about you won't just disappear."

She couldn't meet Leena's eyes. "How I'm feeling is just so _wrong_."

The young woman across the table paused, mulling this newest comment over. Finally, she leaned in, placing her hand gently over Myka's. The agent looked up guiltily. "If it is felt honestly, plainly, instantly; without spite, without hatred, without an outside influence asserting its will over your own, it can never be wrong." Leena looked in Myka's eyes and aura, searching for any clue that would help her friend decode herself. "Life circumstance can only influence how you interpret your emotions, not the authenticity of the emotions themselves."

Myka looked down again and bit her lip. "But Leena," she said, nearing tears, "that's what I'm afraid of." She frowned, pulling her legs close to her body and clenching her cup of coffee. "I can't act on how I feel because I'll be throwing away everything I know and betraying everyone I love… and that's wrong."

"If you don't act on how feel, you're betraying yourself, Myka. That, more than anything, is wrong."

At that, the tears started silently rolling down Myka's cheeks. The brunette bit her lip and looked away, pulling her hand out from under Leena's to hold her coffee cup closer to her chest.

"This_ isn't_ some sort ultimatum, Myka – nothing is simply either _wrong _or _right._ Maybe there will come a time where you can face how you're feeling without having to worry about the rest of the warehouse gang. Maybe how you feel will just fade away," Leena continued, gesticulating with her hands, "or maybe it won't. Maybe it will become undeniable." Leena leaned back, picking up her crocheted doily again. "But ignoring how you feel hasn't been good for you." Myka opened her mouth to protest, and was silenced by a stern but gentle look. Leena continued crocheting. "Just don't be so hard on yourself. The solution will come."

"The solution will come."

* * *

I know, not so much action this chapter. I _promise _there will be more action/ interaction next chapter. I just didn't feel comfortable moving on without allowing the character to mull over things.

Critique appreciated. I always want to hear what readers have to say about character portrayal, or where they hope the story will go. I do this as much for your enjoyment as I do it for mine! Cheers,

kl


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